<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Valentine's Day by starsinherblood</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393877">Valentine's Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinherblood/pseuds/starsinherblood'>starsinherblood</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Rayllum Valentine's Week 2021 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Student Callum, Football/Soccer Player Rayla, Rayllum Valentine's Week 2021, Restaurant Setting, University/College Students, Valentine's Day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:48:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinherblood/pseuds/starsinherblood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rayla might be having a terrible shift, but at least she's not the poor bloke being stood up by his date. Who actually likes Valentine's Day, anyway?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Rayllum Valentine's Week 2021 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Valentine's Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My contribution for the first prompt of Rayllum Valentine's week:)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh, you two are so <em>cute</em>,” Rayla says, collecting the dirty dishes from the couple’s table. “Would you like the dessert menu, or do you have somewhere else to rush off to?”</p><p>“Actually, I have no idea. He’s being very secretive about his plans for tonight.” The Asian fellow, Marcos, glances across the table at his red-headed date. “How about it, Gren? <em>Do</em> we have somewhere else to be?”</p><p>Gren grins. “We do indeed. You did bring your super-soakers and a change of clothes like I asked, I hope?”</p><p>Rayla slips away as Marcos indignantly retorts that he’d thought Gren had been joking.</p><p>She ducks into the kitchen with a sigh, letting the practiced smile fall from her face as she leans back against the wall to catch a breather. Tonight, as expected, is turning out to be one of the busiest shifts of the year, and they’re not even completely into the dinner rush yet.</p><p>So far it isn’t actually all that bad. And it’s not like Rayla had anything else planned, anyway. Of course, if she’d been home, she could have ordered takeout and watched a movie while cuddling her dog and wrestling him for the food, and not even realized what day it is. However, Valentine’s Day is impossible to forget or even ignore when working the dinner shift at the most upscale restaurant in the city.</p><p>She’s not really sure why this shift is getting to her; it’s not like there’s anyone she wanted to spend the evening with. She doesn’t even have past memorable Valentine’s Days to throw shadows over this one. But it’s not even six and she’s not sure how many more <em>Oh, you two are so</em> <em>cute</em>-s she can dish out without completely dying inside. On the other hand, she's not sure how many more passive-aggressive, take-out-your-relationship-woes-on-everyone-else couples she can deal with tonight, either. At least not without losing her job.</p><p>Maybe it’s <em>because</em> she doesn’t have anyone to spend Valentine’s Day with. She’s now a month into her second semester of university and has had a decent introduction to the city, but hasn’t made any good friends—even with her teammates—let alone made any romantic connections. Not that it’s been a priority. And she’s pretty sure, even with her limited experience, that she only gets those kinds of feelings for people she’s already friends with anyway. But it’s not like anyone’s lining up for that, either.</p><p>Which is probably part of why this is so hard.</p><p>Rayla straightens with a frustrated huff. Throwing an internal pity party for herself certainly won’t help. She shakes her head and heads over to the counter to relay her latest tables’ orders to the chefs before heading back out to the dining floor.</p><p>She glimpses a hostess settling the latest reservation in one of her smaller booths and makes her way over, grabbing a pair of menus on the way. Please, moon above, let it be polite, <em>normal</em> people, like Marcos and Gren had been.</p><p>“Hello, my name’s Rayla and I’ll be servin’ you tonight,” she says to the booth’s sole occupant. She hands him a menu, hesitating before placing the other one across from him. “You waitin’ for someone?”</p><p>He nods. “My date.” His hands are folded politely, but Rayla can see his knee bouncing under the table. His brown hair is slicked down in a way that suggests he’s trying to be formal but wasn’t sure how exactly to go about it, though his attire is as proper and impeccable as any of the restaurant’s typical patrons, even if he’s a bit younger than most of them. About her age, probably.</p><p>Rayla sets the other menu across from him. “Can I get you anythin’ to drink while you’re waitin’ then? And perhaps if you know what your date would like?”</p><p>“Ah, just water to start for me, thanks,” he says. “And one for Claudia too. But could you please bring the wine list?”</p><p>“Of course.” He seems pleasant enough, she muses as she leaves. But you never know.</p><p>Due to an unfortunate incident with an entitled diner that leaves Rayla seething, it takes her longer than she likes to make her way back to his table with his simple request. “I’m so sorry for your wait,” she says when she finally makes her way back with the waters and the wine list. It’s been at least ten minutes, so she’s mildly surprised when she sees his date isn’t here yet.</p><p>He smiles reassuringly at her. “No worries, it’s fine. Claudia’s not here yet anyway.” His knee has stopped bouncing, she notices, though he’s now drumming his fingers on the table instead. With mild interest, she notes his tie sports the colors of the Katolin School of Arts, with the school’s logo near the bottom.</p><p>“You probably get this a lot,” he continues, smiling sheepishly, “but—your accent. Are you from Scotland?”</p><p>She does get it a lot, actually, but oddly enough she doesn’t mind his asking. Maybe it’s the way he says it. “Silvergrove, as a matter of fact,” she says, nodding. “Ever been?” The restaurant’s typical crowd tend to be well-travelled, she’s learned, and it’s not unheard of for one to have visited her country. And if there’s one thing well-to-do people like to talk about, it’s all the fancy world travelling they’ve done.</p><p>He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve heard it’s lovely. What brought you to Katolis?”</p><p>“Ah, I’m studyin’ abroad for university,” she starts.</p><p>She’s interrupted by his phone, buzzing with a text notification. He grabs it enthusiastically, but his face falls when he reads it. “It’s just my brother.”</p><p>She winces sympathetically. “Can I get you started with any appetizers, then?” she suggests, flipping her notepad to a blank page.</p><p>xXx</p><p>His date isn’t there when she brings the baked brie over a few minutes later, and she <em>still</em> hasn’t shown up when Rayla clears the barely-nibbled platter at least fifteen minutes after that.</p><p>“Is she runnin’ late?” Rayla asks, refilling his water. She feels bad for prying, but she’s curious.</p><p>“I wouldn’t be surprised, but she’d at least call.” His knee is back to bouncing, and he’s fidgeting with the napkin ring—the cloth napkin itself resting in his lap like any proper gentleman. “I tried her cell but it went to voicemail. She knows the reservations were for six; I hope nothing’s happened . . .” He licks his lips, then reaches for his phone. “Maybe I should try Soren.”</p><p>Rayla’s called away by a booth farther down, and the next forty-five minutes keep her as busy as she’s ever been. She glances at the sad artist’s booth every once in a while. But his date never shows, he never calls her over, and Rayla has frankly too much to do, so she leaves him be. One woman’s meal is entirely too salty, one poor couple’s dinner meets an untimely fate before ever making it to their table, and another man, offended by her “utterly appalling attitude” (read: unwilling to cater to his ridiculous and above that, impossible, demands) insists on speaking to her manager.</p><p>When Rayla finally makes it back to Sad Artist’s booth, she finds him still sitting alone—why on earth is he still here then?—but now hunched over some sort of notebook. No, it’s a sketchbook, she realizes as she peers curiously over his shoulder.</p><p>“That’s incredible!” she says after a moment.</p><p>He jumps, clearly not having noticed her there. “Oh!”</p><p>“Sorry,” Rayla says with a smirk. It’s kind of endearing how he can tune out the noise and bustle of a busy restaurant. “Who’s that?”</p><p>“It’s, uh, my mom,” Sad Artist says, hands fidgeting with his pencil, with the edges of the sketchbook, anything, like he’s itching to cover the drawing but doesn’t want to seem rude. Rayla backs off a bit—she’s not <em>mean</em>—and makes herself seem busy wiping down the immaculate tabletop in front of his absent date.</p><p>“She’s pretty,” Rayla says. “Do you do portraits?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” Sad Artist says, relaxing a little. “I usually do a family portrait for each Christmas, sometimes a portrait for birthdays, stuff like that. But those seem, I don’t know, kinda personal? I really only do them for close family and friends.”</p><p>“That makes sense,” Rayla says. “I bet your mum loves them.”</p><p>He looks away. “She’s . . . she’s dead, actually.”</p><p>Rayla freezes with her arm stretched across the table. <em>Stupid, stupid—! </em>She of all people should <em>know better</em>—“I . . . I’m so sorry,” she stammers. This poor bloke is already having an absolutely shit night, and here she goes just making it <em>worse</em>.</p><p>He shrugs, not meeting her eyes. “It’s okay. It’s been . . . well, I’ve had time. And, I mean, I <em>was</em> drawing her.”</p><p>Yeah, probably since he’s lonely and miserable because his date is standing him up on Valentine’s Day. Mercifully, a table across the way calls for her, and she makes a hasty excuse and hurries off.</p><p>Several tables later and Rayla is dealing with a customer even more belligerent than the one from earlier, and Rayla is <em>not</em> in the mood to do anything but give as good as she gets. He demands to see her manager loudly enough the whole restaurant hears, leading to a thorough dressing down by her harried supervisor (it’s really not Andromeda’s fault, she’s even more swamped than Rayla is).</p><p>A few minutes later she’s back at the recently vacated table across from Sad Artist, scowling and scrubbing at the table harder than she needs to. She knows he witnessed her public reprimand—everyone in the restaurant did—and between that and the debacle of her last conversation with him, he probably doesn’t want to interact with her any more than necessary. He’s engrossed in his sketchbook again anyway, and she resolves not to bother him again until his date arrives.</p><p>But after a few moments, he sets his pencil down. He drums the table for a moment, as if considering, then twists so he’s nearly facing her. “So, when you were looking to study abroad, what prompted you to choose Katolis?”</p><p>Surprised, Rayla ponders for a minute, stacking the dishes. “Well, there were several factors, but the main draw was the women’s football team,” she says. “They have an excellent reputation, and on top of that they get to travel all over the country for games because of their division. And, well, that seemed like an excellent way to get out and see the world while studying abroad.”</p><p>She watches from the corner of her eye, amused, as it takes him a second. "Women's football . . ." he muses, then realization dawns. "Oh, soccer, right." Then he blinks, and his jaw drops. “You’re on KU’s <em>women’s soccer team</em>?” he asks incredulously. “They’ve been national champs for like, <em>seven</em> of the past <em>eight years</em>. What position do you play?”</p><p>“Center midfield.” And, well, screw it. “I’m a starter.”</p><p><em>Wow,</em> she sees him mouth. “Are you planning to go professional, then?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Not . . . really.” She pauses in her work, frowning.</p><p>Sad Artist shifts, turning to face her more. “You okay?” he asks, concerned.</p><p>“Yeah,” she sighs, resuming loading the dirty dishes onto the tray. Somewhere across the ocean, she thinks sardonically, Runaan just woke up in a cold sweat. “I just don’t think I’ve admitted that out loud before.” This shift must <em>really</em> be getting to her. She gives her head a firm shake, and irritably hurls her wash rag onto the full tray. “Anyway. Anything I can get you? I almost hate to ask, but any word from your date?”</p><p>His face falls, and her heart goes out to him. “. . . No.” He sits back and runs a hand through his hair, mussing it completely. It looks much better that way, in Rayla’s opinion. “I honestly don’t know what to think. Her brother isn’t sure what’s up, either, but he’s positive she didn’t get into an accident or anything, so that’s good.”</p><p>Rayla scowls, pissed on his behalf. “Then there’s absolutely no reason she couldn’t at least <em>call</em>.” She lifts the tray with a huff. “At the <em>very</em> least.”</p><p>Once she drops off the dirty dishes, the next round of meals are ready to bring out, and her newest tables are ready to order. Afterwards she finds herself gravitating back to Sad Artist’s booth, albeit with the excuse of topping off his water. She finds him back at his sketchbook, this time a laughing teenager hugging a grumpy bulldog taking form under his pencil.</p><p>“Seriously, that’s amazing,” Rayla says. “Do you have an online portfolio?”</p><p>His eyes instantly brighten. “Yeah!” he says, the most enthusiastic she’s seen him all night. He grabs his napkin, frowning when he remembers it’s cloth. Rayla laughs and tears off a page from her notepad. He scribbles a website address on it and hands it back to her. “I’ve been pretty bad at updating it lately though,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been focusing more on preparing for the art festival this weekend.”</p><p>Rayla nods, remembering. Her team didn’t have a game scheduled this weekend for that very reason. “How many pieces of yours will KSA’s booth feature?”</p><p>“Well, uh.” He glances down and scratches at the side of his neck. “I . . . actually have my own booth.”</p><p>Rayla’s eyebrows rise up to her hairline. “You landed an entire booth at the Katolis Festival of Arts? As a <em>student</em>?” she says, shocked.</p><p>His face turns slightly pink. “Um, yes?”</p><p>“That’s <em>phenomenal</em>!” Rayla says with feeling. “I bet your family is really proud.”</p><p>“Thanks,” he says weakly. He starts to fidget again, which Rayla knows by now is not a good sign.</p><p>“Uh-oh,” she sighs. She glances around, determines her other customers are okay for the moment, and sits down on the chair directly across the aisle from him. “Okay, out with it, Sad Artist.”</p><p>He gives her a weird look at the nickname, then shakes his head and starts to wave her off, but she gives him a flat stare. “If your finished works are half as good as that five-minute sketch I saw, I want to know what’s bothering you about being featured in the festival. With your own <em>entire</em> booth.”</p><p>He huffs, indignant, but he almost looks relieved. “I . . . haven’t told my family yet.”</p><p>Rayla raises a single eyebrow. Several remarks come to mind, but she holds her tongue.</p><p>“It’s . . . complicated,” he sighs. “I want to tell my little brother—he’ll be ecstatic—but if I tell him, then I’ll have to tell my stepdad, and I just . . .” He wraps and unwraps his napkin around his hands. “I don’t know. He’s never said he’s disappointed in me, and he’s always been respectful of my decisions, but . . . art school was not what he had in mind for me, I can tell. And just . . . we’ve never been close. Maybe things would be different if . . . if Mom was still here, or if he and I had had more time to bond before she passed away. But that didn’t happen.” He glances at her. “Sorry. I’m really throwing a pity party for myself tonight, aren’t I?”</p><p>“Welcome to the club.” She shrugs. “And I did ask.”</p><p>“You mean you <em>pressured</em> me,” he corrects, but he’s grinning.</p><p>“Okay, fine.” She rolls her eyes and smiles.  “I . . . <em>lightly</em> pressured you.” She sobers. “But in all seriousness. I don’t know the whole situation of course, but . . . if you do tell you stepdad, and even if he doesn’t particularly care, do you think he’ll end <em>more</em> disappointed than you think he already is?”</p><p>Sad Artist blinks. “I . . . never thought of it that way before.” He takes a sip of his water, brow furrowed. Rayla thumps the table twice and makes to stand, but he shakes his head. “Oh, not so fast. Now it’s your turn, angry soccer player.”</p><p>Rayla straightens, incredulous. <em>Angry</em>? What gave him the impression—?</p><p>She deflates. Well, everything, probably.</p><p>Elbow resting on the table, Sad Artist cups his chin in his hand and wiggles his eyebrows at her. “How come you hadn’t admitted to yourself before tonight that you don’t want to be a professional soccer player, miss starting-center-midfielder?”</p><p>Rayla snorts and stands. “Oh, no. I’m the stoic and silent type. You need to be at least a level four friend before unlockin’ <em>my</em> tragic backstory.”</p><p>It’s not until a few minutes later that she realizes what exactly she’d said, and nearly fumbles the meals she’s carrying out.</p><p>xXx</p><p>By 8:30, Rayla stops bothering to ask after Sad Artist’s date; it’s clear she’s not coming. Which is maybe in the best interest of everyone involved, as Rayla would probably end up doing or saying something that <em>would</em> get her fired. Every time she swings by she expects him to ask for his check, but he doesn’t, and checking in on him quickly turns into her favorite part of her rounds. He never orders an entrée, and he never does order any wine, but he does take Rayla up on her recommendation of their Valentine’s Special Chocolate Cake.</p><p>He tells her about his younger brother who’s looking at veterinary school next year, and she tells him about week-long hikes with her uncles. She good-naturedly lists some of her biggest complaints about how Katolis compares to Silvergrove (and Scotland in general), and he enthusiastically describes the effects you can get with different kinds of paints. Their heated discussion on DC versus Marvel is the most fun conversation Rayla’s had in a while. He never brings up the soccer issue and refrains from asking about her parents, despite her allusions to being raised by her uncles, and she never brings up his mom again or calls him out when he avoids talking about his stepdad.</p><p>When a very relieved Andromeda pulls her aside and thanks her for calming down, Rayla’s a bit taken aback, but after a quick reflection realizes her mood indeed <em>has</em> improved.</p><p>It’s not until the restaurant starts winding down to close that Sad Artist makes any move to leave. He pays in cash, and tells her to keep the change. She side-eyes him, because it’s very generous even if it’s not outrageous, but he raises his hands. “Hey, I was expecting to pay for two full meals tonight, so this is still a steal, for me.”</p><p>She’s still a little uncomfortable, because she knows her service definitely didn’t warrant it (and he didn’t actually buy all that much), but he’s surprisingly stubborn, and she eventually gives up. “I’m so sorry for how your night turned out.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He blows out a breath. “I’ll be seeing Claudia tomorrow, at a joint family function. That’s going to be a fun conversation.” He shakes his head, then looks back at her with a rueful smile. “Thank you for everything.”</p><p>Rayla waves a hand dismissively and starts stacking dishes. “No, seriously,” he protests. “I can’t thank you enough. You were having a shitty night yourself, and you still took the time to make sure I was doing okay. And chatting with you is a much better alternative to going home and moping.” Rayla raises her eyebrows, and he winces. “That came out wrong.”</p><p>She snorts and bumps his shoulder with her own, as her hands are full with dirty dishes. “The feelin’s mutual. I’d rather talk with you all night then have someone excessively unpleasant take your booth.”</p><p>“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says dryly. He glances down, suddenly awkward, and rubs the back of his neck. “Anyway. If you . . . happen to come to the art festival, you’re totally welcome to swing by my booth.”</p><p>“I’d love to,” Rayla says sincerely. “I’d really love to see your finished artwork.” She smiles, softer this time. “And, about your stepdad? Just . . . consider it, yeah?”</p><p>He smiles back, and it reaches his eyes for once, dispelling the “sad” mantle she’d given him for the first time all night. “Yeah. I will.”</p><p>When he stays on her mind as she finishes up her shift, she dismisses it as a sign of how desperate she is for decent human interaction. Just because he was polite doesn’t mean anything. But rather than nickname her something from his initial assessment of her—waitress, Scottish, something about her appearance—he went with <em>angry soccer player</em>. Not that she’s one to talk, after calling him “Sad Artist” in her head all night, but . . . still. He made the effort to look a little deeper.</p><p>She frowns. She never actually got his name, did she?</p><p>xXx</p><p>It’s not until after that coming weekend, when she wanders through the art festival until she finds Sad Artist and his booth and sees his face light up when he spots her, and excitedly showcases his paintings and charcoal drawings—and when she asks he assures her that he and Claudia know where they stand now, even if it was one of the hardest conversations he’s ever had in his life—and she finally gets his name—and it’s honestly really not until after the following weekend, when she sees him cheering from the stands during her home game—and he comes up to her afterwards to make sure she’s okay after that nasty impact with the opposing defender, and offers to drive her to the pharmacy to pick up some painkillers and wrapping tape when he realizes she doesn’t have a car—and in fact argues with her about it when she insists she’s fine, until he somehow convinces her to go, which is the kind of thing no one other than her uncles has ever before taken the time to manage to do—that she decides maybe that Valentine’s Day wasn’t the worst, if she’s gained someone who’s quickly turning into the best friend she’s ever had out of it . . . and maybe, eventually, something more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, I just googled "impressive soccer positions" and came up with center midfielder, which I mention because my sister called me out on it. But she knows jack shit about soccer either, so there.</p><p>Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Rayllum banter practically writes itself, I love these dorks. Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>